


A Canon-Divergent Castrum Wipe

by Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon Divergence, Darkfic, Fighting, Garleans (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, Gore, Mass Murder, Near Death Experiences, Oneshot, Original Villain Character - Freeform, Power Imbalance, Sadism, Save the Queen: Blades of Gunnhildr Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), The Resonant (Final Fantasy XIV), Torture, Trauma, Violence, War, badfic, duty mechanics, if you like any of the characters in the Bozjan storyline you do NOT want to read this, let's a GO, the pacing is ass in this i know LMAO, unnamed male warrior of light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker/pseuds/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker
Summary: The Warrior has seen and heard too much to be all that unnerved. “You’ve heard of me, then. Obviously. Everyone has. Now for part two, you’re going to say something about your loyalty to the Empire and attack. Here’s your cue!”The Pilus continues to stare. A gentle red glow fades into his eyes, intensifying to bright crimson flecked white. The Warrior has seen this before. He’s only fought against it and won once.“Yes,” says the Pilus, nodding his pretty blonde head. “Yes, I’m one of them. I want you to remember this, Godkiller. There are some things even you cannot destroy.”(WoL tries to one-man Lacus Litore and meets a new villain, a living weapon who answers to His Radiance alone. Canon-divergent and edgy as hell. Read the tags!)
Kudos: 2





	A Canon-Divergent Castrum Wipe

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this to get the idea out of my head and also to experiment with villain!Lucius (written here as an antagonist). A writing exercise, of sorts. Not sorry if it's cringe.
> 
> If you tend to project or self-insert onto unnamed WoLs, reading onwards is ill-advised.

The assault on Castrum Lacus Litore has begun. It’s a wonderful night to die in the bloody, desolate cold of the Bozjan Southern Front, needles of piercing rain bucketing down from dark, cloudy skies occasionally lit with flashes of white-hot lightning. The Blades are in high spirits as are the twenty-odd mercenaries marching into battle alongside the Warrior of Light, who seems to summon them out of thin air wherever he goes. For his part, the Eikon-slayer is glad for the newly minted helm covering his ghastly face. He’s only an hour fresh from having his skull pieced back together by some very talented chirurgeons, who only recognized him by his aether signature when he respawned at camp in fifty separate pieces. And now he throws himself into the fray again, gun packed into his long black coat in case his trusty lance isn’t enough. His legs are as limber as ever and he has so many lost actions stacked up he _knows_ he’s invincible. He’s going to be porting out of the Castrum in an hour’s time instead of waking up on the operating table with half the camp praying he’s alive.

He scoffs. “Where would you lot be without me, eh?”

Marsak turns to him, bright eyes gleaming with mirth and hope. So much hope, as if he were not a veteran soldier but an overgrown, lion-faced child. “Struggling quite sincerely! We are ever in your debt, Blade-” He barely gets another word out before crackling gunfire splits the air much too close for comfort. The soldiers scatter, snaking their way up the incline until one takes out the turrets trying to halt their advance. Within a few seconds a siren screams in warning as hundreds of Garleans pour from the Castrum, climbing down the walls and piloting sky armor emblazoned in red, white and gold. Bajsaljen doesn’t even need to order the charge – his men know exactly what they’re doing, as do the Warrior’s handpicked brothers in arms. All anyone’s been doing since the Calamity has been melting the faces off Garleans for coin. The Warrior doesn’t necessarily like it. He stabs cleanly through anyone who draws near and isn’t wearing a completely ridiculous outfit – making sure to keep well away from the Blades of the Queen. Soon enough the Garleans start avoiding _him_ , and he has to lunge after their backs to keep them off his comrades. He isn’t here to tank, but some of his fellows are dressed rather scantily and flinging complex spells that suggest they really shouldn’t be taking any hits. He looks around for the paladin, a big beefy Roegadyn in shining white armour. “What the FUCK are you doing?”

The paladin is on the floor face-down with no less than five Garleans dancing on his head. At least it looks like that’s what they’re doing – the Warrior doesn’t have time to stare. He cuts through them and hauls the man up before dropping him with a sigh. He’s seen that soulless stare so many times before, the stare of a being so wholly disconnected from their immediate reality that they cannot react at all. Trauma aside, it seems like the Garleans are starting to reconsider their life choices. Most of them are creeping back into the Castrum while those still locked in combat are beaten, sliced and broiled. There are two black mages standing perfectly still off to one side, calling down hellfire upon a squadron chasing the group’s lone machinist around in circles. The Warrior begins to regret his choice of companions.

Finally, the battering ram arrives. It’s an armored weapon designed to drill through several fulms of steel and by Hydaelyn’s grace, it had better cut through the Garlean type too. Bajsaljen reminds everyone to protect it at all costs, directing half the soldiers to scale the walls and take care of the enormous warmachina inside. The Warrior sizes up the Helldiver hovering a few feet ahead and wishes he could ride it. But he has to stay focussed. The memory of how the Scions look at him whenever his gaze lingers overlong on some bit of Garlean architecture or weaponry or even the flags… it stings, spurring him into action. He turns to his twelve comrades and eyeballs the gunbreaker.

“You know what you’re doing, right?”

The gunbreaker has just reached rank 10 and has never seen a Helldiver in his life. He is still shaking from the memory of a particular red chocobo that wiped out forty well-seasoned men in the span of three minutes. The Warrior of Light is looking at him and he nods, cracking a shaky smile.

There’s a dark knight standing behind him who sets a hand on his shoulder gently. “I shall main. Follow my lead.” He nods to the Warrior who dips his head in return.

“Alright. Now, we get one shot at this, two if you’ve got resurrection items on you. But let’s give it our best shot, because I sure as hell don’t want to be dragging this out overlong, not in this bloody weather. Mikoto’s still in there and could be executed any minute now, so let’s fucking GO!” The Warrior jabs his spear up into the air and rouses a glorious battle cry from the soldiers around. The Blades ready their decidedly non bladed weapons, turn to the Helldiver and await the knight’s charge.

What happens next is something the Warrior admittedly foresaw, but didn’t want to believe. The dark knight grabs the enemy’s attention and drags it off to one side, leaving room for the drill to bash the Castrum gates. The drill flattens a red mage who had been pointing his tomephone at a burning Garlean banner, and not one of the healers bothers to raise him. The healers are all focussed on damaging the heavily armored craft with their piddling offensive spells, neglecting to do any actual healing until the Warrior screams at them to do so. Just as he goes to leap out of harm’s way, one of the healers pulls him twenty fulms through the air and to their side, where he jumps as he’d coiled in readiness and smacks right into the nearest wall. Gunfire pelts his back full of holes and he only just manages to stay breathing due to the same healer pumping him full of restorative aether.

He's angry now, at the blinding incompetence of his peers. It’s a feeling he’s had consume him time and time again, having to call upon all sorts of people to help fight the endless battles he was forced to lead. The Scions never put him up against enemies he could take one-on-one. It was always monsters, armies, Gods. This time, Garleans – he must’ve killed _millions_ by now, or at the very least, a few hundred thousand. If Garlemald ever had a problem with overpopulation, it sure as hell doesn’t anymore. Another flying grip yanks him out of his thoughts with a sudden lurch. This time, it does save his ass from another hail of bullets and for that he must be grateful. The healer collapses a moment later and he hears the dark knight swear. Clinging to the Helldiver, the knight beats it with his sword as the machina advances to the last remaining healer. The healer tries for a resurrection and is blasted in the face – she is a mere spray of red upon the floor moments later. The Warrior grits his teeth. He gestures for the knight to run, swiping a hand back and forth across his neck but the knight still tries valiantly to grab the enemy’s attention.

He succeeds. Several sky armors descend over the gates as the Helldiver withdraws from battle, called by a sharp voice ringing throughout the Castrum. Some big shot they’ll eventually have to kill. The Warrior doesn’t see anyone resurrecting. It’s just him, the knight and whoever’s still alive up top.

 _“Man, fuck this.”_ A grizzly voice comes through the linkpearl, aimed for the Warrior but broadcast to all. _“I ain’t dying today. You know how long I grinded to get in here? Ain’t worth it, not one b-iEEEAAGH!”_ Bright orange beams shoot up into the sky from behind the gates and finally, the gargantuan warmachina falls silent. Only two survivors jump down to help clear the remaining sky armors out of the bloodied courtyard and one just splats himself down into pulp, resurrected by some kind of essence he was wearing. The Warrior looks at him sternly.

“We don’t have any healers. You wasted that thing.”

The machinist shrugs. “We’re done here, anyway. In case you didn’t know, mighty eikon-slayer, we only get one life. Dead for more than ten minutes is dead forever. Peace.” He holds up two fingers, fading out of view by means of some spell the Warrior himself has never bothered to use. _He_ can return to whichever aetheryte he so pleases. Most people can’t.

The knight and surviving red mage exchange worried glances. “Uh, listen. Warrior. It’s been real nice knowing you, but…”

“No, no. By all means.” There aren’t any more enemies to cut down, the last of the sky armors laying in pieces before the gates. The drill zooms past one final time and bashes them right open, and the Blades run right inside. “I’ll just get on with saving the realm, then, or winning back Bozja for the Blades, whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing here. You guys have fun.” The Warrior doesn’t care for deserters much. He’s come to expect the gossamer fidelity of man to falter in the face of even the slightest adversity – not everyone is made of the same stuff as him. Not everyone is protected by plot armor so strong it’s granted him physical immortality beyond that of a God. He is a slayer of Gods, above them, and he knows it.

The mercenaries depart. Off goes the Warrior of Light into the Castrum, one or two steps before he realizes what’s wrong.

The Blades aren’t just waiting for him to catch up. They’ve stopped for an entirely different reason.

“What is it now?” The Warrior doesn’t know how he’s going to do this without a tank or healer, but figures the Blades will support him well enough. Bajsaljen points at the lone figure standing between them and the central approach – a Garlean soldier in typical Pilus garb, gilded black armour and a lovely long tabard. His helmet is off, making him look much less threatening than all the other officers the Warrior has had to fight. Bajsaljen and the others don’t move an ilm. The Warrior rolls his eyes.

“Alright, say your little speech and get out of the way.” He levels his spear at the Pilus, who he doesn’t quite remember seeing anywhere prior. “Give us a name, so we can write down some field notes. Send you home in a nice little box.”

The Pilus merely raises a brow, steel gaze fixed upon the Warrior. “Was it true, what he said? That they only get one life?” His eyes roam across the ten or so Blades assembled by either side of their champion. “I don’t see any healers. Death is all the sweeter when it cannot be reversed.” Back to the Warrior, he stares unblinkingly. “Not that you would know.”

The Warrior has seen and heard too much to be all that unnerved. “You’ve heard of me, then. Obviously. Everyone has. Now for part two, you’re going to say something about your loyalty to the Empire and attack. Here’s your cue!”  
The Pilus continues to stare. A gentle red glow fades into his eyes, intensifying to bright crimson flecked white. The Warrior has seen this before. He’s only fought against it and won _once_. Dread shifts his stance to a quivering guard.

“Yes,” says the Pilus, nodding his pretty blonde head. Somehow in the pouring, pelting rain, his platinum blonde hair fluffs about completely untouched by it all. Not even his face bears a single drop. “Yes, I’m one of them. I want you to remember this, Godkiller. There are some things even you cannot destroy.” He reaches into the holster at his hip and pulls out a firesand pistol, aims it to the Warrior’s left and shoots. One of the Blades crumples to the ground and Marsak is the first to scatter. The Pilus shoots him in the leg and then the other, pinning him to the ground in agony. The Warrior knows exactly what he’s playing at and by the Gods, if he doesn’t put his own hero pants on soon enough he will have hell to answer for back home.

**_‘Not if there are no survivors.’_ **

He nearly drops his lance in shock as the Pilus’s voice wafts through his head, leaking through his ears low and sweet and oh-so- _tempting_. “No, you-“ Forward. He jumps, stabs and meets nothing. Spins around, nothing. The Pilus is stepping neatly around him before he so much as thinks to stab again, and even turns his back to the Warrior in favor of massacring the others. “No- wait-” Another gunshot. One of the Blades had thought to rush forth and now lies curled into a ball, clutching her stomach. The Pilus glances back and looks _bored_ , but not Zenos-bored. Bored in the way a spoilt show cat might be with a selection of foods it’s tried before, aching with a primal need to capture, torture and kill. Well. Maybe a _little_ Zenos-bored.

 **“COME ON!”** The Pilus throws his arms out wide, gun tossed aside. “You’re not leaving alive, so at least give me something!”

The soldiers flee. Bajsaljen first to Marsak, trying to haul him up even as Marsak is shaking his head with eyes wide, frightened, voice quivering in pain _begging_ him to run. Bajsaljen shakes his head and wraps his huge arms around Marsak’s torso, hefting him as best he can. “I’m not leaving you.”

Marsak howls into his shoulder unable to move, his strength bleeding out of him by the second. Several bones snap as another Hrothgar is thrown into them from the side, sending him and his Commander to the floor. The Warrior is still trying to land a blow on the Garlean hunting down each of the Blades one by one – Marsak just barely catches a glimpse of the man grabbing someone by the arm and wrenching it out of the socket, before tearing it clean off and whacking the soldier in the head. Now he’s smiling.

“Please,” Marsak sobs into Bajsaljen’s fur. “Go. You have to- have to tell them. Tell them-” Another body slams into him and it’s the Pilus this time, who would deliver a killing blow were it not for the Warrior of Light peeling him off and going for a fatal stab. Alas, his lance does not quite make it at such close range and the Pilus shoves him, teeth bared. White fangs glint razor-sharp and bloodied, and for a moment the Warrior thinks he’s wounded. Then he realizes the man has torn a piece out of Marsak’s neck, mercifully unmoving in Bajsaljen’s arms, who is screaming and screaming and will not stop.

“WHY?!” The Warrior scrambles away, drawing his gun. The Pilus cackles high and shrill with hands raised to the sky, his chest heaving as blood and viscera slop from his armour to the ground. His eyes are fixed on the Warrior’s face warped in naked anguish, the mighty eikon-slayer shivering and sobbing himself blind amidst the corpses of his protectors. Bajsaljen continues to howl like a siren and the rain pelts down harder as if trying to scrub the earth of the Pilus’s sins. The Warrior does not know who he is or what Legion he serves – all he knows is that this _thing_ must die.

He brings his left hand up to stabilize his aim, shaking so much that he cannot shoot even at point blank range. His finger will not lock into the trigger, it keeps slipping about and the Pilus is coming towards him now- there, he has it! He shoots, and the Pilus neatly steps aside. Again, and it pings off the man’s armour. The Warrior aims for his body and the Pilus whips his hand through the air, a bright blue flash deflecting the hail that follows. He licks his thin, pale lips.

“A savage like you shouldn’t be playing with Garlean weapons, you know.” He reaches out to grab hold of the gun and the Warrior shoots right through his hand – he doesn’t even flinch. “Tch. Poor little thing. I don’t know why you bother, fighting for this sorry lot.” He rips the gun from the Warrior’s hand with frightening strength, crushing the barrel in the process. It clatters to the ground, mangled beyond repair.

“They… the…” The Warrior grabs hold of his spear, holding it crossways like a shield. “The Resistance, they…”

The Pilus rolls his eyes. “Oh, come off of it. You never cared for them or their cause, did you? It was just more orders, more bloodshed, more war.” Crimson eyes fade to wintry blue. “I know how it goes.” He throws a hand up as if swatting a fly, gesturing to Bajsaljen. “Rrgh, I’ve had enough of him. Finish him off, so I can do what I must with you.” The red begins to bleed in again, turning that penetrating gaze a bright, piercing purple. “Want me to go easy?”

The Warrior shakes his head, clutching his spear tighter. “I’m not… no. I can’t.”

 ** _‘They’re not your friends. They’re not your brothers, either. They’re certainly not your masters. Let them die, and go back home. Crawling, screaming, afraid.’_** The Pilus’s voice drifts through his ears once more. **_‘Same way you were born, you feral cur.’_** Slowly, the Warrior’s limbs begin to move. He tries to stop them, wrest control away from this _thing_ that has him in its thrall but all he hears is gentle, melodic laughter. So soft and yet inescapable, filling his body with churning spasms that drive his spear through Bajsaljen’s chest and Marsak, too. The Bozjan Resistance is no more than an idea, now. The Warrior collapses over the bodies of his comrades, shaking.

The Pilus pulls him back up. Grabs him by the helmet and whisks it away, going for a nice tuft of the Warrior’s hair. He forces the mighty Eikon-slayer to look him in the eyes and begins to pull his face off, scalp first.

~*~  
  
He wakes screaming, sobbing and trembling all over back in Gangos, the Resistance having quickly abandoned their camp on the Southern Front. Mikoto is nowhere to be seen, but Cid is there with his arms wrapped around the Warrior murmuring softly into his hair, “You’re okay. You’re alright, you’re here,” He calls the Warrior by name as always and it calms the man down, quiets him a touch. “You’re here. It’s okay. Shhh…”

Gerolt and the others watch in silence as the Warrior clings to Cid’s bare arms and weeps in silence. His weapon is gone, his backup ones too, as his body only managed to reconstruct itself at the most basic level – all his personal effects have vanished. At least now he is clothed and breathing, though the chirurgeons sitting nearby are watching him like he’s still the mangled heap they found by the aetheryte just hours prior. One of them glances to Cid, who meets her gaze worriedly. She looks away.

The Warrior does not calm for at least an hour, and by then the last of his healing has finished up and there isn’t a scratch to be seen anywhere at all. He still feels them of course, especially when his chin brushes against a particularly sharp corner of Cid’s jacket and those cold metal fingers are there again, digging into his flesh until they meet bone and pulling and pulling and _peeling_ …

“My dearest friend.” Cid whispers, lifting a hand to cup his champion’s face and thinking better of it, moving to stroke soft, dark hair. “Who did this to you?”

The Warrior shakes his head. “C-Can’t.” He writhes to get away and Cid lets him go, the chirurgeons keeping a close eye on the way he moves. His limbs twitch every few seconds or so, and his eyes are constantly scanning as far as they can see. “Can’t. Can’t fight him.”

“Who?” Sjeros is there by the tent’s entrance and crouches, paws out placatingly as the Warrior backs away. “Was it Zenos? An Ascian?”

“Krile,” the Warrior cries. “Please. She can see. Bring her.” And he will say no more, crumpling to the ground in a ball with his hands over his face. Cid crouches beside him and glances at the twenty odd adventurers assembled, every one of them staring at Eorzea’s savior in a mixture of pity and concern. Some look disgusted, others afraid. Whatever it was that the Warrior saw, fought and lost to… is not an enemy anyone wants to have.

It is an hour before Krile arrives by aetheryte, rushing to the Warrior’s side as fast as her little legs will take her. The sheer distress screaming through the air is all she feels through her sensitive Echo, white-hot and pleading for mercy as visions flicker in and out of what the Warrior saw. She doesn’t even make it to his side before the force of it takes her and she sees – _lives_ that night in the rain, the battle that was not a battle but a massacre of hundreds, thousands - the world spins. Strong arms sweep her up and carry her to the tent where the Warrior lies twitching on the floor, hands grasping at the cloth tied across his face. Cid sits with his head in his hands and the chirurgeons are mixing some sort of sedative with gloved hands trembling – their champion cannot be left to suffer. Krile barely sees the world around her until a jolt of aether zings past and rips her out of the nightmare. She wakes to the reality of being bundled like a sack of potatoes under a stranger’s arm.

“WAAGH!”

The soldier puts her down at once. “Oh, thank the Twelve. Miss, the Warrior of Light here called for you, he-”

“Who’s in charge here?” Krile looks around, her voice shaking. “You?”

Sjeros nods, lifting a hand. “A-apparently. Our forces were routed and our leaders slain. I answer for the Blades.”

“You need to retreat, _now._ That was a Resonant, and not one any of us have seen before.” Krile rushes to the Warrior’s side and kneels, placing both hands out over his quivering form. “Gods…”

“Right, then.” Cid rises and all those assembled turn to him, Krile dipping her head respectfully. “I trust Mistress Krile’s judgement, and I know for a fact that none save the Warrior of Light could ever hope to slay one of the Resonant. Inhuman creatures they are, warped and twisted by the Empire’s...” He trails off. Everyone looks antsy enough to get the hell out of there, Sjeros included. “Well. Less talking and more escaping, it is.”

The chirurgeons approach just beyond the Warrior’s line of sight and quickly inject him with the sedative, Krile stroking his hair as the light fades from his eyes. She stands with fists clenched, struggling to keep her composure. The rest of the Scions aren’t going to like this at all.


End file.
